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trot(e-.! out of my life as gaily as he had trotted into it.
After I,is ucparture I hud a good cry by myself in the
kite!)-"!! :'.Hi'uVn.

*fci sluil! urvcr be so fond of anyone again as I was
of Rob Roy/1 I thought, mopping my eyes with a
grub!*.;, ''.,mdkere'uirf. Subscquem events proved my
pro[hi<vy" incorrect. And anyhow it was a fine day,
early in September; a few minutes afterwards I was
clambering up into a plum tree. The plums were
particularly good that year.

As might be expected, Dixon lost no time in dis-
covering an adequate substitute for my vanished
favourite. For .several weeks he remained reticent on
the subject, except that once or twice he mentioned
mysteriously that, he thought he had heard of some-
tiling. Conscientious enquiries among coachmen,
innkeepers, and the local vet, and the insertion of an
advertisement in the county paper, culminated in the
zirrivulofa iourtren-hand, mouse-coloured Welsh cob
called Sheila, The sight of Sheila struck awe into
my heart. She looked as much too big for me as
Rob Roy had looked too small. 1 also divined that
she was enormously expensive,

ul)o you really think Master George'Il be able to
manage her, Dixou?" asked my aunt, regarding
Sheila with deprecatory approbation. Dixon reiter-
ated his belief that the mare was thoroughly handy
amf as quiet as an old sheep: he added that we'd
never get such a bargain again for thirty pounds.

"Jump on her back, Master George, and see if she
doesn't give yon a good feel," suggested that inex-
orably encouraging voice which was to make a